by Kathleen Larrick, Santiago de Cuba
In the streets of Santiago, the music lives everywhere. In the rhythm of the street sweepers, the “whoo-hee-hoo” whistles and pss-pss-pss whispers of the men as ladies pass, the sing-song tones of retro car horns, a song emerges as the day begins. And it never stops.
Rhythm, movement and melody are ingrained into the everyday life of Santiagueros in a way U.S. culture may never embrace. As ethnomusicologist and author Ned Sublette points out, “The first known use of the word drum in English appears only in 1540…” Fifteen-forty. Meanwhile, Afro-Cubans could trace their history of the drum to the evolution of human speech, “talking drum.” Traveling to El Oriente as a group of American dancers through George Mason University’s Center for Field Studies, we were given the unique opportunity to completely immerse ourselves in the culture, language and families of the communities. We came to know our neighbors surrounding the studio of Ballet Folklórico Cutumba, where we studied each morning, and the lobby of the hotel we called home for eleven days became a social hub for salseros, musicians and friends.
Walking to class the first morning, we happened upon a Conga de Comparsa in celebration of Los Dias de los Reyes. The streets writhed with the rhythms of the batas, hypnotic melodies of the coronita de china in a sea of brightly-clad bodies. This was our first meeting with our percussionists, dance instructors and now dearest friends – and while not every morning in Santiago begins with a costumed procession through the streets, daily life there does fall in step with the impromptu. A walk to a friend’s home for dinner on a Sunday evening will just as easily become an event. While studying with percussion professor Yacel Cabrera Mestre, such an event was planned by his father. As we walked, we gathered additional offerings for the feast, much in the Mardi Gras tradition. As we danced and sang our way to his home accompanied by the sounds of Havana D’Primera from a small speaker, we acquired pastels, cola, rice, more Habana Club Rum and a piña to share.
While cell phones are rare and WiFi does not exist, what limited musical technology has seeped into the region has only been used to enrich ancient rituals still practiced daily. Mobile devices continue the tradition of music processions. In the States, it would be inconsiderate to neglect wearing earbuds in public. In Cuba, the idea of noise pollution is a foreign one, as every sound becomes a new texture woven into the musical tapestry of the street. If a person is blessed enough to have an MP3 player, they carry a speaker to share that music out loud for everyone to hear. It would be thoughtless not to. There is a common phrase among the people that reveals itself more absolutely with every interaction: “[Fill in the blank] es agua.” In fact, todo es agua. Everything is water. Money, kindness, rum, the way a dancer moves. Everything is to be shared, appreciated by everyone with no debt to repay. Everything flows like water.
Another intrinsic layer to Cuban culture is everyday relevance of their religions. Santería and palo beliefs permeate every aspect of Cuban life, often in conjunction. There is no need to ascribe to only one belief system. The most prominent religion is santería, Yoruban-derived and thinly veiled with Catholic syncretism. The pantheon of Yoruban (lucumí) dieties are syncretized with the Roman Catholic saints to create a creolized pantheon of orishas. As these deities are ancestors, they exist in the earth, down in the ground. Praise is directed, not to the heavens as in European-style dance. The weight is dropped to reference and honor to those who have gone before.
Just as music in the US (mostly jazz, blues or bluegrass genres) pay homage to traditional songs and composers by quoting passages of those melodies, dancers in Cuba “quote” the phrases of movement associated with an orisha in their popular and social dances. As a couple dances the highly flirtatious guaguancó section of rumba, the man may begin pantomiming the action of sharpening a machete to reference Ogún, the warrior. Responsively, the woman may raise her arms, revealing the steps of Oyá, the female warrior. Percussion rhythms and strokes infuse sacred references as well, sometimes with the provocative Abakuá ekue (a spit-finger glissade) stroke, once banned by the Cuban government. Even popular songs in the bolero, son or danzon traditions may reference the name of an orisha in repetition. The chorus of a set opener and closer may just repeat the name “Eleguá”, the orisha who opens and closes the gates to a ceremony, an evening or new opportunities. In a sense, there is no such thing as secular Cuban music or dance.
After a day of experiencing music and dance in the daylight, the city offers an incomparable nightlife, engaging the most talented musicians in the region. These are scheduled gigs and run roughly on the timetable laid out by each venue (within 45 minutes or so of the designated “hit” for each group.) Much like New Orleans, one group may have 3 sets a night, all at different clubs. Unlike the U.S., many of these engagements are only 50 minutes each at many patio venues. A standard day of club-hopping may begin at Casa de la Trova for a 4:00 set. After dinner, the authentic traditional venue is Casa de los Tradiciones. There, the locals arrive early to listen to the boleros. As the night progresses, the small room is flooded with couples dancing son. The music might be infused with references to charango or danzón, once decreed the National Music and Dance genre of the country. Walking down a steep hill and avoiding cavernous potholes, the next stop may be Patio de los Dos Abuleos or Patio de Artex to cool off in the open (still hot) night air. En route, any courtyard or edifice emitting a 2-3 duple clave is fair game. If you pass an alley boasting a triple clave rhythm, look out and be ready to rumba.
Until the embargo is abolished, these experiences are something most gringos can only read about, which I have done the last 15 years or so. Still, nothing can prepare an American for encountering Cuba’s greatest commodity: its people. As Yacel Cabrera Mestre’s gig bag reads, “I’m a giver. I hope you are too.” There is no other way to interact in Cuba but to receive graciously and to give freely. Todo es agua, but there is never enough time.
